Tales from Beyond
by CrookedSpoon
Summary: Series of drabbles. Various characters, variours pairings. Rated T for safety.
1. Dependance

**Characters:** implied Hibari/Mukuro  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 200  
**Warnings:** Hibari  
**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no profit, no sue.  
**Notes:** This is going to become my little drabble collection. Updates whenever I've written something new.

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That Hibari hated herbivores was hard fact; no evidence needed. Look down the path he had walked and see it littered with the bodies of his adversaries. Weak herbivores all – the kind that, in their weakness, flocked together to hide behind a collective vision of strength. Trapped inside a self-imposed cycle of dependence, they needed other people to survive and reasons to fight for. (If they were delusional enough to rely on petty ideals to lend them power, their blunt teeth could not harm him.)

That he too needed people – strong people he could strive to surpass – he would never admit to. (Without people able to put up a fight, life would be boring and ultimately, his edge would dull.)

Indeed, he would rather bite off his own tongue than acknowledge that not all of his fights had ended with him emerging victorious. (As long as he didn't admit it, he had suffered no defeat.) So far, only one person had brought him to his knees – a favor he strove to return, this time without advantages on either part. That in mind, he could put up with the mingling Vongola herbivores if it meant facing (walking over) that man again.

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	2. Roads not Taken

**Characters:** implied Lal Mirch/Colonnello  
**Rating:** G  
**Word Count:** 215  
**Warnings:** None in particular  
**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no profit, no sue.  
**Notes:** Possible OOC-ness.

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Sometimes at night, when her body craves rest after days of fighting, her mind still shoots like heavy artillery, unable to shut down, reliving memories, reassessing concerns and reconsidering decisions like countless times before. Her thoughts come thick and fast, as if using what little time she had at night to try and run away from both the images of the past and battles still ahead; during the day she is all war strategies and battle instincts, with walls thicker than any fortress – walls that push all burdens unrelated to and interfering with survival to the bottom of her conscious, where the rubble sinks in a mire of regret.

It's during those times at night, when she begins theorizing. Useless, she tells herself, useless and stupid and too late in any case.

_What if...?_

What if she had prevented Colonnello from taking her place as Arcobaleno? What if they had stayed together afterwards? Would he still be alive? Would she have died in his stead?

So many possibilities each day, more paths to take than she could ever imagine, yet only one choice to make at every crossing. She has seen the road fork too many times already, a battle-torn life was all about decisions, and she lives with the regret of routes not taken.

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	3. Muscle Memory

**Characters:** Ken, Chikusa, Chrome, Mukuro  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 450  
**Warnings:** Mentions of violence  
**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no profit, no sue.  
**Notes:** Prompt was "make him tame so he can live at peace with the world" (December 2nd at the LJ comm 31_days)

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In this world, absolution may be given to him, whose hands are stained with blood if he begs and pleads and grovels enough.

It's not for them, though. They kill and kill again, for pleasure, business or the need to survive. Their hands are black already; no amount of scrubbing would restore the angelic white given at birth.

It's none of their concern. They have abandoned morals and conscience the day the world, their family and hope abandoned them.

Ken still has nightmares about it. He doesn't admit it, says he can't remember, but Chikusa could hear him thrashing wherever they were - be it on missions, in prison, makeshift homes.

Ken calls him a fucking liar when he mentions it, delusional, wanting to piss him off. It's that easy to aggravate him.

Whenever he's like that, about to attack Chikusa, to rip out his throat, because he's wild, untameable, Chrome steps between them, voice soft and shaky, but gaze firm. She's not afraid of them, the killers in her midst; she trust them, calls them friends even. She doesn't want them to fight; she is different from Mukuro in this, who only ever chuckled and left them to deal with the aggression on their own.

He has always been willing to inflict the same kind of pain he has been forced to endure. The pain that has twisted them, blurred the boundaries of reality for that which was acceptable.

When Ken rages, it's different for every beast inside; he'll smash whatever is in his path, assault people, leave a trail of destruction. It's hard to bear the shrieks and growls, the clang of thrashed metal or thud of broken wood. Chikusa can't handle him when he's like this and neither can Chrome, for all she is Mukuro's voice, his container; in the end she's just a tool, just like them. Ken does not listen, because maybe he can't, not to their voices at least.

All it takes is the sound of Mukuro's voice, soft laughter from the other end of the room, a whisper in Ken's ear, a hand on his shoulders. Only Mukuro can bring him to heel, because Mukuro was their saviour and Ken instinctively knows he would not lay a hand on him, could not, would not survive a breach of trust.

This world was a maddening, unforgiving one. They could not live in peace here, not with the sins they have committed; they could forge their own peace, however, carve it out of the parts they destroyed. And maybe... maybe recreating the world in Mukuro's image can bring them calm, free them from the torturous muscle memory that chained them to experiences of the past.

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	4. Mi Manchi

**Characters/Pairings:** Chrome-centric, Kokuyo  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG; some (fluffy) angst  
**Word Count:** 100  
**Prompt/Theme:** January 1st "our breaths in winter" **31_days**  
**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no sue.  
**Notes:** Originally posted to my LJ in January.

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It's during nights like these – hunched and huddled under rags to trap warmth between them (too precious to waste), cracked knuckles curled around stiff fingers (mostly warm and always protective) – when breath curls misty against one another's cheeks, made visible by the decline of temperature, and not even Ken's whistling snore can soothe the oppressive silence in her head.

They don't let on if they're concerned, so she doesn't either (as not to be a burden), but asks them to teach her new phrases in Italian, ones that could reach out in his mothertongue:

_Parlare con me, Mukuro-sama. Mi manchi._

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Translation: Talk to me, Mukuro-sama. I miss you.


	5. Poison Ivy

**Characters:** Byakuran  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 250  
**Warnings:** None in particular  
**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no profit, no sue.  
**Prompt:** "You were never able to keep me breathing" (Emilie Autumn - Opheliac)

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The idea of friendship was often likened to strong ties that bind together, inseparable - an idea that never failed to amuse him. Byakuran liked tugging at those ties, like plucking strings on a harp; it was a weakness for him to explore, a noose around someone's neck.

(Human beings could be so foolish if they wanted to be. They seemed to like knotting the very ropes they tied themselves down with, searching for every possible escape from that irremediable solitude they had all got in common, never realizing this friendship of theirs was nothing more than the inaptitude of living life on their own, facing that emptiness that slumbered within each of them, vast and heavy as the sea.)

Friendship was a fascinating word: it held so much power. Which was why it did not surprise him that there were those who wanted to use that power against him, calling themselves his friends. He let them. Perhaps they did not know the meaning, perhaps it was part of their game. No matter. They could not keep his head above the water, could not make him breathe if he did not want to.

And if they could not, what use were they? It did not make humans any more serviceable if you called them "friends".

The old Armenians already knew that if friends were a good thing, God would have a friend too. A notion that nullified God's supposed perfection. God stands above all, noone stands with God. Not even the devil.

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	6. Children of the Hunt

**Characters:** Mukuro, Kokuyo  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 350  
**Warnings:** Religious ramblings, tl;dr  
**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no profit, no sue.  
**Prompt:** **Prompt/Theme:** III 50. Mukuro + Kokuyo - Hallowed; "Lord, Savior, King." **khrfest**

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In his dreams, he sees the world on fire – a vision of the future. One day, he will bring it about, and they shall rise among the embers to the chaos of a new beginning. He can see it all with his cursed eye: they would reinvent the world, safe those poor mortals from their self-imposed chains of hatred and slavery, cleanse them from the ashes of a dying mind.

He knows humans never wanted to be like this, they are flawed creations and trapped in their own hunger, parasites feeding on each other. In his world, there would be no more bloated bellies stuffed with greed, no more envy-dripping tongues, no more corruption.

That's what he shows them, when he enters their mute, monochrome dreams, when he walks among the eyeless chambers of their minds and talks of things to come, with his usual aura of gnosis, secret syllables they cannot hear, yet understand.

He speaks of his return as of the Second Coming of Christ. "Let not your hearts be troubled, my children, just as I have gone, I will return." And they believe him, for he is their savior, who sacrificed himself, his freedom, and smiled down from his wooden cross so they could go on living, living for him, unbound.

It's not easy at first, it's never easy. They lack orientation without him, they're worthless, their lives wasted, without him. In their dreams, they listen for the words that never leave his mouth, watch out for visions of fire and creative destruction he wants to share.

They stand ready at every hour, they do not know when he will come, only that he will. They have faith in him. It keeps them going. They will not rest until he's reunited with them in the flesh.

First, they would kneel on either side of him and kiss his hands as for an oath of fealty they do not need to swear, because their lives are his already, then they would thank him for saving them again, leading them to salvation.

And that would just be the beginning.

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	7. First Steps Into a New World

**Characters:** Chrome, Haru, Kyouko  
**Rating:** G  
**Word Count:** 450  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimers apply. No own, no profit, no sue.  
**Prompt:** II 50. Chrome/girls - friends; "never been like this" at **khrfest** **  
Notes: **Written in January '10**.  
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This was new. She could see no hidden motives, no sugarcoated lies. There were no whispers behind cupped hands, away from her ears, and even the laughter was authentic. These smiles were genuine, they confused her.

She had never heard of girls sharing secrets over slices of cake, opening up to one another, exposing so vulnerable a thing as their tiny hearts, beating, blue-veined and full of life. She had never been able to imagine herself in a situation like this, not even with her power of illusions, and yet, here she was, with two girls a little older than herself chattering away about topics she had never considered before.

"Mmh, there's nothing better than strawberry shortcake," Haru sighs around the fork in her mouth. She looked so carefree with her eyes closed and her shoulders relaxed, as though the smooth taste of fruit was all it took to release all the tension routine built up.

And it was catching, really, peaceful even, without talk of the mafia or schemes to take it down and she thought she could almost get used to this, to the slow, uneventful passing of every day, among loved ones who accepted her with all her flaws, without a hint of hesitation.

All she needed to offer in return were some slivers of her own secrets, sharing them around like pieces of cake, those hidden thoughts she didn't know she was supposed to have.

"Say, Chrome-san. Is there someone you like?" Haru's eyes were glowing as she leaned over the low table, mouth open and expectant, starving for a treat.

This was unexpected. A brief image of Mukuro-sama popped into her mind. Chrome flushed, cheeks heating to a shade deeper than the one that accented Kyouko's eyes. She peered into her tea cup and shook her head, this wasn't it – _like_ was not an adequate description of her feelings. She couldn't think of anything that was. Words were ambiguous, they never told the whole story. There was too big a gap between them, too much left unsaid.

So she couldn't tell them; this wouldn't answer their question. She half expected them to yell at her, because that was what happened when her answers didn't satisfy.

But they never did. Instead, Haru enveloped Chrome's hand with both of hers, accepting what she offered with an honest smile. "You'll find someone."

On impulse, Chrome wrapped her arms around Haru, decorum and safe distances forgotten. She was thankful not so much for what she said, but what she did, letting Chrome be a part of their world that was so unlike her own, more difficult to understand and brighter somehow. Yet she enjoyed every second of it.

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	8. concern is helpless here

**Characters**: Chrome, Mukuro  
**Rating/Warnings**: PG; psychiatry!AU  
**Word Count:** 100  
**Disclaimer**: Standard disclaimers apply.  
**Notes:** Written for the prompt "with ink stains on her fingers" at 31_days

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For the past weeks, she has been working toward this day. Despite much cautioning from her superiors, her pleas had finally earned her a session.

He was smiling as though he were hosting a party - when his hulking guards brought him in, when they removed his shackles, and when she handed him cards with green and red and black inkblots for free association.

"Seriously, doctor. A Rorschach test?" He sounded almost disappointed. "I expected more from you."

"What did you expect?"

His smile was showing teeth. By taking the bait, she had made it easier to get inside her head.

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	9. Freedom Has No Destination

**Title**: Freedom Has No Destination  
**Characters:** Mukuro, Ken, Chikusa  
**Rating**: G  
**Word Count:** 555  
**Warnings**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: Standard disclaimers apply.  
**Notes**: Written for the prompt "we stay because we have nowhere else to go" at 31_days

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They stirred a song in the yawning woods, a frantic song of expelled breath and leaves that mutter where bare ankles, legs and elbows pass. Twigs broke and mud squelched beneath the pairs of feet; whatever sounds they made, whoever followed, was unimportant as long as they kept running.

The world stretched on forever, and the size of it burned in their lungs and in their legs.

The boy with the red eye collapsed against a sighing tree, its boughs stretching and sheltering and waving overhead. His body grew and shrank in the rise-fall alternation of exertion, until the gasped-in air converted to expelled laughter. He doubled over and clutched his sides and stained his red-flecked shirt with new patterns where his hands bunched in the fabric. The trident he had been carrying clattered to the ground.

"Oh," the red-eyed boy breathed once he's found enough air left between his lungs and mirth, "that was fun."

The two boys with him clutch their sides, not from laughter but from pain, they breathe and breathe and stare at him. Their faces betrayed nothing beyond flush, sweat and grimaces. They hardly understood him over the rush in their ears, but that word he had used was unknown to them.

They were unaccustomed to speech, having only raised their voices to cry out in agony or lower it to whispers, repeating words the adults had let slip around them, when they thought they could not hear.

The red-eyed boy pushed himself off the tree, picked up his trident and set one foot in front of the other. "Let's move on," he said, voice more even than before, "the further we can get, the better."

"Where are we going?" the boy with the scarred face asked. A good question, although the broad meaning of 'where' is lost on them; the locations they have been to were limited, all walled in, with a slab-grey ceiling for a heaven. Pain had been their compass, the rooms distinguished by the ebb and flow of it, but what did they have now?

No destination, that much was clear; none of them had.

"It doesn't matter," the red-eyed boy said. "Somewhere far away from here."

The trees around them whispered their encouragement, urged them to move on, and waved good-bye. It might be dangerous. The world stretched on forever, without walls to lock them in and all that open space was frightening and exhilarating.

Strange were the bonds that shared experiences could create. These boys had only just escaped together, but there was no hesitation about them, nothing to hold them back.

The bandaged and the scar-faced boy fell in step with the red-eyed boy. They had as little need for words as for a road to take.

The red-eyed boy studied his right hand for a while, where the red colour crusted his fingers and forearm. A raindrop fell onto his palm and he closed his fist around it. He looked up with a wide smile, his red eye glinting in a patch of moonlight.

"The rain will wash away our sins," he said and spread his arms.

The other two would not argue; cheap absolution was preferred over life-long penance. They were free now, they could taste the rain rather than just hear it, and no one would take that away again.

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